


How Many Steps Forward?

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Series: Forward and Back [1]
Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Anachronistic, Backstory, Bad childhoods, Character Study, Cliff's surrounded by death, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rick doesn't think he's good enough, Trauma, World War II, and a little enemies to friends to lovers, tarantino typical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-30 05:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: There's about ten moments that bring them together. Give or take. Depends on who you ask, really, and how many whiskey sours that person may have had.(Pre-Movie, at the start of Rick's career on Bounty Law.)





	1. Chapter 1

** _“Don’t wait till death shows up before you start learning how to live.”_ **

** _Meet Joe Black (1998)_ **

Cliff’s always carried a little bit of death around with him. Maybe a shot glass full. He felt like it was a curse once, when he was a little boy in the middle a nothing town in Tennessee. When his mom got a little cough that turned into a lot more. With no dad to speak of he was shipped off to an aunt and uncle who lived one state over to the west.

From age seven and onward going west became a goal, despite that bit of death in his pocket. Every spring and summer spent working the farm he’d day dream about taking their horse and riding all the way out there; to the desert and the plateaus and the coast. And every bitter, cold winter he’d shut his eyes and think of the sun out there waiting for him.

The depression came and went and Cliff felt like somehow that was his death curse too. Especially when they had to sell off most of the livestock because they couldn’t afford to keep them fed anymore. Everyone around him, human and animal, became skin and bones except him. He was lean but somehow while everyone starved he survived. Strong and able despite the meager helpings of broth that was meant to sustain them.

World War II started and instead of heading west like he always dreamed he was forced east. Death stayed with him then, through long days of killing nazis. By then Cliff was half convinced that death was actually helping him. Partnering up for the good of the world.

When it’s over he hits the pacific coast. Gets a shit little car with barely enough room to curl up in the back, clutching his knife as he slept. The sun is warm though, and it’s the west. Every morning he goes out to the beach and stares out at the vastness of cold blue water. He’s a little afraid that one day death is going to forget that they’re friends now. It’s going to come in a giant, crashing wave and swallow him whole.

And that’s pretty much the first quarter of his life. One big funeral.

** _“And now that you don’t have to be perfect you can be good.”_ **

** _John Steinbeck_ **

** _East of Eden_ **

“Shit,” His father starts and Rick knows he can’t escape it, “Goddamn worthless, piece of shit fuckin’  _ pussy _ .” He yanks the hunting rifle from his son’s small, nine year old hands and, really, that can’t be safe. Damn thing could go off. 

Several yards away a deer sprints, fast and hard, for shelter. Rick would smile, maybe even cheer if he wasn’t so damn afraid of seeing the bad side of his dad’s belt.

All he had to do was squeeze the trigger. The day before they had practiced on old milk jugs and Rick had done just fine. Not great, because the rifle felt heavy and big in his arms, but he’d shot every glass to bits eventually. All he had to do today to avoid his father’s wrath was kill one deer.

And Rick couldn’t even fucking do that right.

“M’sorry. S-sorry-”

He saw the bad side of the belt right then and there, under blue Missouri sky.

**(01) Rick’s Take**

They ask Rick if he can ride a horse. He’s sure he’s nailed the audition, he’s just  _ sure _ that he has. Hell, if they asked him if he could stop the earth from rotating or fly to Mars he’d say yes. He feels indestructible, infallible almost.

He says yes.

How hard could it be?

**(02) Cliff’s Take**

Cliff takes the backdoor into Hollywood. He doesn’t really mean to but it starts something like this; he’s handy with tools so he gets a gig building sets. They need some extras for a shootout scene and the director decides Cliff has a handsome enough face, let’s set up a shot with him leaning up against a saloon and get in real close on those baby blues. And then finally, while he’s working one lot over on some detective show some PA from the western next door rushes in.

“Anyone,” huff, “know how to ride a horse?”

Cliff turns immediately, “Sure do.”

The PA looks relieved as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “Think we can snag you for a couple of shots? Our Jake Cahill can’t ride for shit.”

Cliff glances at the props he was painting, still glistening in the sun as they dry. What else is he going to do for the rest of the day really? Everyone was at lunch anyways and those who weren’t were running lines or setting up for the next scene. 

(Sure, there was a script rolled up and poking out of his back pocket because casting had needed someone to read across from people as they auditioned and somehow Cliff was always the one marching forward to help. After that they wanted Cliff for some minor part, just a few lines here and there.)

((Fuck it, they’d find someone who actually wanted the role. Someone who actually cared.))

“They don’t need me here,” Cliff says, taking off his work gloves and shoving them in his other back pocket. “Lead the way.”

**(03) What Actually Happened**

“This guy’s not so bad,” Bounty Law’s director murmurs as Cliff guides the horse with ease. In no time he’s gotten the horse, Daisy, to canter through their backlot, old west town. Rick’s all day affair boiled down into a few easy minutes. When Cliff and Daisy slow and a cloud of dust dissipates into the air around them it’s almost beautiful. 

Rick seethes quietly behind the camera as he holds an ice pack to his side. Daisy bucked him and some unsuspecting set dresser broke his fall. Poor Daisy got spooked by something and of course Rick being clueless about how to ride a horse didn’t help either. Too much nervous energy between man and beast, one of them was bound to get hurt. 

Rick watches as this Cliff Booth fucker trots back over towards the camera after the director yells cut. He and Rick are wearing the same costume but Cliff’s fits a little tighter around the shoulders. His posture is totally comfortable, like he belongs up on that horse. With the light on his back and shadows on his face.

Rick tugs at his collar, feeling a little too much like a kid on Halloween. On the set of his own damn show. 

“You up for taking a few falls, Cliff?” The stunt coordinator asks.

Cliff nods as he strokes Daisy’s neck, “Course.”

“Great.” The director and Rick say at the same time but Rick’s the only one who storms off mid syllable. 

Cliff does his best not to roll his eyes at the drama of it all. Fuckin’ actors. 

**(04) Sideways**

After a week of Rick glaring at Cliff like a cat at a dog, Rick realizes it’s not so bad to have someone like Cliff around. So long as Rick remains as Bounty Law’s star and Cliff remains as the guy who jumps off horses and thrown out of saloon doors. 

And Cliff seems happy to be that guy. Or maybe not happy, that’s a little too descriptive - he seems fine. Nonplussed. Unmoved one way or the other. He’s polite and helpful and damn good at taking a fall or a punch, but at the same time he’s almost stoic. Sure, he’ll smile at the girls in hair and makeup and he greets everyone by name but when he’s not needed he sneaks away to an empty corner in the backlot and chainsmokes by himself.

It’s so profoundly the opposite of Rick’s attitude. Anxious and excited and mostly charming except when he’s feels that jolt of  _ when are they going to figure out I’m a fraud _ . Rick likes being around people and partying and throwing everything he has into every episode of  _ his  _ show.

And it is his show, goddamn, just try to take it away from him.

(Not that Cliff would, but he doesn’t know that yet.)

Here and there between their limited words Cliff thinks they could get along if someone would do the whole crew the favor of removing the rod from Rick’s ass. That boy - Cliff’s nearly six years older, he’s allowed to call him a boy - is wound  _ tight _ . It’s amazing he can play someone as cool and low key as Jake Cahill at all. Then again, maybe it’s not; it’s called acting for a reason.

It’s a Thursday, the most sluggish day of the week and, just to add to the lethargy, there’s a heatwave. That’s the only way Rick can explain what happens.

((But if you rummaged around in Cliff’s brain then you might think it’s that shot of death acting up again.))

The sun baking everyone’s brains to char, that’s the only reason why the set crew would be so sloppy while up on those ladders. Changing the signs of the old west storefronts so they could use the same backlot for a different town.

Cliff’s listening to the stunt supervisor talk about the plan for that day as he watches Rick seek out shade underneath aforementioned storefronts. And everyone is sleepy and covered in sweat and that’s how--

“Holy shit!”

“Watch out!”

“J-jesus,” Rick splutters, suddenly crammed between earth and Cliff Booth. Supine and choking on all the dirt that’s been kicked up by the prop sign falling and cracking on the ground. His hands are pressed up against Cliff’s hammering heart and; how about that, he does care.

Or it could be from the effort of sprinting over and tackling another grown man to the ground. Either-or.

“You okay, pal?” Cliff asks, still on top of Rick. Heavy, solid and safe. 

“Sh-shit, yeah. Lord almighty, that thing could’ve…” Rick doesn’t finish that sentence, “Thank you.”

Cliff huffs a small laugh as he stands, “Don’t worry about it.” When he offers Rick a hand he hardly expects him to take it but he does. And an unexpected bolt of  _ something _ shoots up through Cliff’s arm, making the hairs stand. He hauls Rick up to his feet. They’re probably a bit too close again. “Just leave the near death experiences to me from now on.”

Rick laughs, “Maybe you’re good for something after all.”

So, maybe Cliff doesn’t get the rod out of Rick’s ass, but he did the next best thing.

He saved the life of someone who would become very important to him.

**(05) You’re A Fine Girl**

The city is buzzing with lights and cars and laughter and the sky is as pink as Rick’s face when he’s three margaritas deep. Cliff gains more and more familiarity with that color with each new weekend. Who could have guessed it; the stuntman and the actor becoming friends.

All it took was a push from death.

“End of the bar, that gal keeps looking your way,” Cliff whispers as they huddle next to each other between the large, Saturday night crowd. It’s not quite a hole in the wall, but it’s not Rick’s usual digs either. “Dark hair, looks a little like - shit, what’s her name? - Hedy Lamarr.”

Rick looks like he’s about to spit out his drink, “It’s H-Hedy Lamarr?”

Cliff rolls his eyes, “ _ Looks _ like her. A little. Don’t get too excited.” 

“You never know in this town.” Rick says with a wag of his eyebrows. 

It’s not Hedy Lamarr, not by a long shot, but she’s still pretty and giggles at everything Rick says. And she’s got a friend with curly, bleached hair who keeps Cliff company by splitting a cigarette with him. 

Rick winks at Cliff before he and Not-Hedy leave for Rick’s car. He keeps an arm around her waist and tries his best to stay upright. Nobody wants to be used as a crutch. Her face is warm and rosy as they kiss by his car. And when she blows him as he sits on the driver’s side he screws his eyes tight and gets lost in the feeling. 

Cliff already knows better than to take the bleach blonde - Marie, he’s pretty sure that’s what she said her name was - anywhere near his shit car. When he nods in the direction of the single stall bathroom she huffs and finds another guy to share a smoke with.

Oh well, can’t win ‘em all. Cliff finishes his whiskey in one gulp before trekking through the crowd and to the parking lot. He stops midway, realizing he needs to take a leak, when a yelp from a nearby bush distracts him.

Cliff never was one to ignore his piqued curiosity. Another small yowl reveals a cowering puppy. No collar and no one around to take care of her. Shit, that just breaks his heart. 

“Ah shit, c’mere girl,” Cliff sticks out his hand, welcoming and unafraid. “You’re more my type anyway.”

She wags her stub of a tail at that before meandering forward. Mutt, mostly pitbull, and tremendously underweight. Skin and bones and a walking reminder that death has not and will not leave Cliff’s side. It’s as loyal as this dog could be.

Maybe he should take it as an omen.

Nah. Fuck it.

Cliff grabs an old blanket from the trunk and spends the next ten minutes corralling the dog. By that time Rick’s done and Not-Hedy is on her way back to the bar. Cliff’s just about settled the pup when Rick, messy haired and loose, approaches. 

“S-seems like you made a friend,” Rick greets, cigarette dangling from his lips. “What happened to uh, y’know-” He nods back to the direction of the bar where Marie still is, presumably.

Cliff shrugs, “You know how some girls are. Sides, looks like I got a date with this one.”

“She’s gonna - going to need a bath.”

Cliff nods, “Sure will.”

“You got a tub?”

Now, Rick’s never been to Cliff’s trailer (the one he could finally afford thanks to being a professional stuntman) but he has an inkling their living situations aren’t the same. Rick’s renting a house not too far from the studio but soon as he can he plans on buying a house in the hills. That’s what you do when you make it; you buy a goddamn house.

“Nah. She’ll probably fit in the sink though,” Cliff says, leaning against the side of his car. “Unless you’re offering?”

Rick doesn’t know how or when this started happening but sometimes when Cliff smiles at him he feels something run down his spine. Electric. Those smiles, all dazzling with white teeth and full lips and not in that fake, Hollywood,  _ I’m selling you Crest Tooth Paste _ way. A smile that reaches his eyes and warms Rick’s chest a little.

It makes him nervous, but not always in a bad way.

“I’m offering.”

Cliff nods. And away they go.

It’s an easy drive to Rick’s place despite the traffic and restless pup trying to get over to Cliff’s lap every five minutes. He still has to take a leak but he feels a dumb grin plastered to his face anyway.

“What are you going to-to call her?” Rick asks, returning from the kitchen with two beers and a fond look in his eyes. 

“Well,” Cliff says, lathering shampoo between his hands as the dog sits petulantly in middle of the tub, “thinkin’ about naming her after the bar. Since we found her there.”

“Brandy?”

And by God, her ears just happen to perk up.

They dry her which really shouldn’t be a two person job but for such a little pup she has a lot of fight. And maybe it goes a little slower than it should because they keep stopping to drink their beers and light a smoke. 

By the end of the night Cliff passes out on Rick’s sofa, TV static buzzing quietly as Brandy nuzzles into his chest. Rick’s only a few feet away, curled up in the arm chair.


	2. Chapter 2

**(06) ** **Th-Th-Th-That's All Folks!**

“Y’know he has a stutter? Isn’t that bananas?” Cliff overhears a mic operator (Jim) say to the new costume assistant, a freckled redhead (Lana? No, Lily.). “No idea how he turns it on and off like that. I think it’s a gimmick or something.”

Lily drops her jaw, ruby lips parting, “Couldn’t be.”

“Sure it is, so a sweet thing such as yourself can find him charming or boyish or what have you.”

They’re all smoking against the back wall of the soundstage as production team readies the set. Cliff’s gotten used to these people enough to rotate between smoking alone in the corner of the lot, smoking with Rick in his trailer or, occasionally, smoking with the crew to pick up on gossip.

Not that he  _ likes  _ gossip, but it’s useful to know what’s going through the grapevine. This city will eat you alive if you don’t get out in front of rumors. 

“Is that true, Cliff?” Lily says, turning to him.

“Sorry, darlin’, I wasn’t listening.” He smiles at her as he takes another drag. “Is what true?”

Jim glares at him for a moment, like he might beat him with the pole for the boom mic - for smiling at Lily or for playing coy about the gossip, Cliff couldn’t say. Maybe a combination of the two.

Lily inches forward as if she’s about to share top secret information, “That Rick Dalton’s stutter is phony.”

Cliff shoots his brows up in mock surprise, “Aw hell, who’s the bonehead who told you that?”

Lily giggles while Jim’s face turns as red as her hair. And yeah, maybe Cliff has a little too much fun stirring up shit every now and then but he likes to think that it’s always with the best intentions. In this case, clearing the name of his friend.

“Well then how can he get through his lines without messing up?” Jim, the idiot, argues with this smug little smile. If it was anywhere else and about anyone else Cliff might have let it go or thrown fists, one extreme or the other. But it was Hollywood and it was about Rick. Sometimes subtly was required.

Cliff chuckles, “It’s called professionalism, Jim. You could learn a thing or two about it.”

The director calls everyone back to set, Rick delivers his lines flawlessly and Cliff can’t help but feel a little bit of inexplicable pride.

**(07) Interruption **

They’re meer hours away from wrapping the last episode of the first season and Rick can’t help but be emotional. He cried this morning in the shower (like a pussy, his father’s voice reminds him in his head. No good, goddamn, faggot-)

Anyway. He cried in the shower, he cried on his drive to the studio and now he’s crying in the trailer. The craziest part is that he’s happy. Genuinely, truly, happy. Happier than he’s ever been in his whole life. And his eyes have the audacity to weep.

He digs the heels of his palms in hard, until he sees a cascade of stars, when there’s a light rap on his trailer door. Fuck, he’s still a mess they’re going to have to start shooting soon. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“You in there, buddy? It’s me.” Cliff says, only slightly muffled from the other side of the door. “Your five’s almost up.”

Rick wipes away the remaining tears before plastering on his most convincing  _ I’m not a fuckin’ pussy _ smile. He swings the door open, “Just need a minute more, that’s all.”

Cliff nods, “Figured you might. Brought you a little something to settle the nerves.” Cliff taps the breast pocket of his jacket before stepping into the trailer with Rick. For three minutes they pass a flask filled with bourbon back and forth until those nerves smooth away to nothing.

The two of them stand in that entryway by the door despite the fact that there's a daybed and a couple of chairs and enough room to spread out from one another. But they don’t do that and they don’t clean the lip of the flask before trading it off. 

(Some dumb, childish part of his brain thinks that it basically means that they’ve kissed.)

(( _ Goddamn queer, disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit- _ ))

Rick can smell Cliff’s brand of cigarettes mixing with the bourbon on his breath as they stand toe to toe for a few moments more. Everything is warm and pleasant and, shit, is he going to cry again?

Cliff opens his mouth, licks the upper corner of his lip and says, “Do you ever-”

“C’mon gentlemen, we have a finale to wrap up!” Cliff and Rick jump away from each other, the former hitting his head against the wall. The loud, clicking footsteps from the producer recede and punctuate the pounding of Rick’s heart. Goddamn.

“Were you-ou gonna say somethin’, buddy?” Rick asks, smoothing down his shirt just to give his hands something to do.

Cliff smiles and shakes his head, “Nah. Nothing. Let’s go kick some ass.” 

**(08) I Don’t Want To Die Without Any Scars**

Maybe it’s a little ironic that the first real injury Cliff gets is two weeks after the last episode is in the can. Sure, being a stuntman came with scrapes and bruises and that one scare where the whole crew thought he’d broken something - he hadn’t, just got the fuckin’ wind knocked out of him. But this fine, Friday afternoon was out for blood and Cliff couldn’t even blame it on work.

He could blame it on his old friend, death. Yeah. That’s probably it.

In the weeks after they finish shooting season one of  _ Bounty Law _ Rick gets invited to plenty of parties, which means that Cliff also gets invited to plenty of parties. Rick splits his time between drinking and introducing himself to every single person who could give him another job. Cliff more or less basks in it and enjoys the free food and beer.

It’s another beautiful day in Los Angeles, why not go to a pool party?

“You ever notice that with each one of these things we go to the bikinis get tighter and trunks get shorter?” Cliff asks with a smug little grin as Rick drives - didn’t make sense to take two cars, not with Friday traffic. Although Cliff does wish he’d ease up on the brakes and stop straining this poor piece of machinery.

Rick laughs, “Maybe you-- we, just have that effect on p-people.”

They both chuckle. They’re both bare chested with exception of of Cliff who wears a hawaiian shirt unbuttoned and loose so he can have somewhere to keep his cigarettes. They’d almost look like a couple of surfers if it wasn’t for the fact that Rick was driving down Melrose and neither of them have surfboards.

So really they just look like two barely dressed men with sunglasses and tanning oil. Typical L.A.

“Should’ve taken Santa Monica Boulevard,” Cliff says as they stop for a red light. Cliff grabs for that pack of smokes and taps the box hard against his hand before pulling one out. He pauses, “You want one?”

“Sure,” Rick says as the light turns green again, “Side streets are f-faster-”

“You call all this starting and stopping faster? You’re just gonna hop on it anyway.” Cliff puts both cigarettes in his mouth. Just makes lighting them easier.

“No the fuck I am n-not. Melrose to La-La See-- aw fuck,”

“La Cienaga?” Cliff mumbles, flicking his lighter.

Rick nods like he’s won this argument and like he didn’t need a pronunciation lesson from Cliff, “Melrose to La Cienaga to Sunset.”

Cliff chuckles and offers one of the cigarettes to Rick, who just parts his lips and lets Cliff slot it in. “Sounds like a lot of starting and stopping to me.”

“Yeah, well, when you’re driving us around you can take S-santa Monica fuckin’ Boulevard.”

A pool party in Beverly Hills. Goosebumps form on Rick’s arms as he pulls up to the mansion belonging to one of the network execs. Goddamn, he could get used to this. Cliff pats his bare shoulder before giving it a squeeze, “Don’t forget to breathe.”

“A lot of people in there.” Rick says, still not ready to move from the car.

“Oh don’t go tellin’ me you’re  _ shy _ all of a sudden. You’re Rick fuckin’ Dalton, man.”

And Cliff does enjoy those bashful little smiles Rick gives him when he says it like that.

So he says it again, “Rick fuckin’ Dalton.”

And Rick  _ beams _ , totally and completely  _ glowing.  _ Something tugs inside of Cliff’s chest and he half thinks he’d do anything to keep him like that. Eyes shining and fucking beautiful.

Oh shit.

There’s a reason that in the 70s Lawn Darts - a popular, stupidly large version of regular darts played outdoors - started implementing duller, plastic tips instead of the surprisingly sharp  _ metal _ tips that were used in the 50s and 60s. Turns out having people, who were likely drunk off their asses, throw  _ giant darts _ was a terrible idea. Thank God for progress and class action lawsuits.

Unfortunately for Cliff, it’s 1958. And these motherfuckers have metal tips.

It could have been worse, really. It’s not like Cliff was stabbed or impaled or anything. It just so happens that he was walking between the pool and the swath of lawn. A spunky blonde on his left arm just so happened to be asking him about some of his war scars (honestly, women these days have a lot of nerve), trailing a nail over his bicep. And in that exact moment some dumb idiot decides  _ now _ is the best time to be waving around a lawn dart as he talks about his next big movie and how great he’s going to be. And he cuts Cliff from deltoid to elbow, crooked and awful.

The blonde screams and Rick looks over immediately from the bar, where he was talking to some girl who really wants to be the next Lucille Ball.

And all he sees is  _ red, red, red  _ gushing out of his best friend.

Cliff looks down at his arm, tilts his head almost confused. He hasn’t seen that much blood since the war. Huh.

“Holy shit,” Rick exclaims, rushing to Cliff’s side. He drops his beer because  _ fuck the beer, Cliff is bleeding _ . The glass shatters and foamy amber joins crimson blood. Everything smells metallic and hoppy. “H-holy shit, Cliff, are you okay? I mean, goddamn you’re bleeding so much. I-I-”

Rick grabs the nearest towel and applies it to the long gash running down Cliff’s arm. Everyone’s staring at them but Cliff doesn’t really feel it. He just feels the sting of a fresh wound. His eyes lock with Rick’s and he hates how scared they look. And despite the fact that everything that isn’t Rick and blood is blurring around him, he says this matter of factly: “Make a tourniquet, call an ambulance. I’ll need some stitches but should be fine.”

“Fuck the ambulance, I’m t-t-taking you to hospital  _ now _ .”

“You’ll get blood all over the car.”

“Fuck the car, Cliff. J-jesus, buddy, you’re fucking bleeding and dying and-”

Cliff has the gall to laugh, just a little, and Rick’s face becomes that much hotter. Angry and confused tears start to collect in his eyes. And that’s not right, he shouldn’t be crying. He’s not the one who’s hurt.

Cliff grabs Rick’s hand, squeezes it twice, “Trust me, I ain’t dying over a fuckin’ shitty game of lawn darts. This is just death popping in to say hello.”

Rick blinks because what the fuck does someone even say to that. 

**(09) You Jump**

If you imagine a kettle boiling over, bubbling and steaming and whistling - uncontrollable and unruly as stove flames keep it roiling - and then imagine the rest of the kitchen catching fire and burning down, then you kind of have a glimpse into Rick Dalton’s mind.

He’s trying, God almighty is he trying, to keep everything...what? Normal? No, probably not. The train for normal left a long time ago. He’s trying to keep things  _ okay _ . He’s trying to keep things  _ manageable _ .

Rick can manage his lines and his auditions and his interviews. He can manage feeding himself semi-regularly, even if that just means eating cereal and bagels for breakfast and ordering in for dinner. He can manage paying for rent and utilities and his car.

He can _ not _ manage seeing Cliff Booth get hurt.

His own fucking stuntman. 

**(10) I Jump**

“Shit, Cliff, I’m so goddamn s-s-sorry this happened.” Rick says, teeth clenched around his cigarette as he drives them from the ER to his place. Rick insists that Cliff spend the night since his house is closer to the hospital than Cliff’s trailer, yammering and panicking about what if he rips one of his stitches in the middle of the night.

Cliff agrees mostly to soothe Rick. He does not point out that there is more than one emergency room in all of Los Angeles. 

Cliff, with his hand out the window feeling the current of the night air, says, “For the hundredth time, Rick, it ain’t your fault.”

“They should out-outlaw those fucking things.” His hands are angry white as he clutches the steering wheel. “If I ever see that kid again I’m gonna-”

Cliff cuts him off, “You think this is the first time I’ve been hurt? The first time anyone’s drawn blood from me, Rick? It’s nothin’. Barely a scratch.”

And really, based on everything that Cliff  _ is _ \- rugged and tough and strong and clearly skilled in combat - this shouldn’t be shocking. But it is. And it makes Rick’s heart pound harder as they get closer to his house.

“What’d you mean,” Rick asks after some booze and pizza, as they sit on the couch watching the news, “a-about death...saying hello?”

Cliff’s jaw clenches for a moment and Rick wishes he could grab his question out of the air and shove it back down his throat. But he can’t and the question hangs there a moment longer.

How can Cliff even explain it without sounding insane?  _ Death’s following me?  _ Death follows everybody, what makes him so goddamn special? Because he’s a vet? Rick’s never seen a day of war in his life and Cliff doesn’t need or want to be the one to expose him to all that trauma. 

And it goes back to before the war, doesn’t it? Dying family, dying farm, dying dreams.

Well all his dreams didn’t die. He made it west, didn’t he? He made it here.

Rick backpedals, “Ahh, shit, forget I even asked, buddy. Who knows, m-maybe it was just from the shock of the cut. That happens, right?”

“You ever think your life’s being guided by something? I don’t mean God or anything divine. I just mean...I dunno…”

_ Fate _ , Rick thinks and then feels naive. Fate sounds so hopeful and perfect and like everything that happens is for the best. The only thing that’s been guiding Rick’s life is  _ Rick _ and his goal to be  _ somebody _ . To get the fuck away from Missouri and his father’s belt and every ounce of hate that’s ever been thrown his way.

But then again who is Rick to say that fate does not exist when Cliff Booth is sitting on his couch, looking like everything Rick’s ever wanted.

They’re close to each other on the couch. Not touching, obviously, but over the course of the conversation Rick’s directed all of his attention towards Cliff like a plant facing the sun. His arm is resting on the back of the couch and if he reached out he’d feel the muscle of Cliff’s shoulder. He could touch the tanned skin of his bicep and feel the nurses handiwork of needle and thread.

“Yeah. S-sometimes.”

Were their faces always this close? Should Cliff be able to count Rick’s eyelashes? Should Rick be able to smell the tobacco on Cliff’s breath?

Soft. Cliff’s lips are soft against Rick’s, and somehow that’s the most shocking of all. Rick fists his hands into Cliff’s hair and finds that that’s soft too. Cliff pulls him by his hips until Rick’s straddling him and Cliff’s licking a strip of skin on his neck. Goddamn, goddamn. 

Rick’s so willing and pliant and gorgeous like this. Blushing cheeks and wandering hands. Cliff has to mind the stitches but that’s okay, his other arm is wrapped firmly around Rick, keeping him close. If someone had told Cliff an open wound was all it would take to get Rick Dalton, he would have gotten hurt a long time ago.

They part with panting breaths. Rick takes to peppering Cliff’s jaw with chaste little kisses and something about it, about how sweet he is, makes Cliff’s chest ache. “You’re so good, Rick, you know that? So good.”

Rick beams, even gets a little teary eyed, and dives back in for Cliff’s mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was enjoyable! I may or may not write an epilogue depending if inspiration strikes but only time will tell.
> 
> I had a lot of fun playing with format and writing style. Not exactly copying Tarantino but definitely allowing myself to an opinionated 3rd person POV. I'm sure it wasn't for everyone, but I liked it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are much appreciated!


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